Unexpected Gifts

by Mallery, S. R.

  Out in California, a transplanted Oakie said it best. “I have worked hard my whole life and all I have is my broken body,” he grunted, his stubbled face highlighted by flecks of gray, his collar threadbare by multiple washings, and as he hobbled away from me, his bowed, ricketed legs reminded me of a wishbone lumbering off into the distance.

  In Chicago, we stopped at the apartment of a tubercular mother. Her torn housedress was pinned together haphazardly, her greasy hair like an oil slick on the road and her black, hollowed eyes tracking through me as if I weren't really there asking any questions. When I requested a chance to see their bedroom, I noticed her picking unconsciously at bedbug bites on her arms before nodding yes.

  The bedroom walls were completely covered with flattened Post Toasties Corn flakes boxes for warmth, the one iron bed gritted in rust and dirt. Five frail children sat or lay on the punctured mattress, their faces and bodies caked with soot, their eyes already registering shame. I gave them their privacy by returning to the main room, but not before I heard one of them toss out a question to her siblings, “Do you think they have food for us?”

  I calmly wished the poor mother well; however, outside on the landing it was a different story. “If only we could force Congress to witness this!” I cried, one hand fisted down at my side, the other busy wiping away a tear.

  “Oh, Adriana, I know it's bad, but you've got to buck up. We're reporters. We have a job to do, for God's sake,” Hick snapped, and as I shadowed her down the tottering stairs and back to the hotel where we were staying, two thoughts passed through my mind; how differently Eleanor would have reacted to this whole scene and how come they were such good friends?

  I was right about the First Lady. She was sensitive enough to recognize my need for a bit of rest and giving me the weekend off, suggested I spend quality time with my own family. That was my cue. I would devote myself entirely to Tony, Daria, and Rose no matter what.

  But since when had my little adoring brother, the one who used to follow me around like a well-trained puppy, ready to do my bidding, become such an unhappy man? When did alcohol replace everyone and everything?

  I walked into our apartment to the strains of Amos n' Andy.

  I was appalled. “How can you listen to those two?”

  From the sofa Tony looked up at me with sleepy, bloodshot eyes.

  I continued. “You know, Amos n' Andy aren't really Negroes. They are two white actors named Freeman Godsen and Charles Correll.”

  “So? Who cares? They're funny.”

  “Tony, listen. They're making a mockery of the entire Negro population in this country, don't you get it?”

  A wide-gestured swat was his answer.

  I turned to my niece. “Hey, Rose. What are you doing?”

  Her mouth was locked into pursed position. “Nothing,” she muttered, arranging and rearranging the line-up of her dolls and sparse china tea cup collection in slow motion.

  Just then, the Father Charles Coughlin program came on the radio. I stiffened and reached out to turn the knob.

  “Don't you dare touch it!” Tony snarled. “I wanna hear him. You got to listen to your damn Roosevelt, now it's my turn!”

  The next half hour was filled with pure venom. Apparently, FDR's New Deal was just a Communist plot designed by Jewish bankers and labor union bosses and thus, only the very wealthy could save the country. As one of the most powerful men in America sermonized, I kissed Rose goodnight and gave a gentle pat to Daria's back, a tight smile stretched across my lips. I thought of my own mother after we had moved to Detroit, singing Tony lullabies From the Old Country, trying so hard to remain peaceful and loving while in the next room, a furious Andrei was relentlessly railing against everything.

  By Monday I was more than ready to get back to work.

  In recent years, the small town of Jere, West Virginia, was the site of various coal miners' strikes. Nicknamed Bloody Run, it was also an area where the brown muck of mine waste and human feces ran down the hills and emptied into the Monogahela River, and it was also there that Eleanor Roosevelt had decided, against the advice of many government insiders, to create the country's first Utopia: Arthurdale.

  “But we're in the middle of a depression, Eleanor,” Hick complained as we sat perched on first-class cushioned train seats on route to our designated area. “How are you possibly going to pass this funding by FDR, let alone Congress?”

  “Don't be so snide, dear. Franklin actually supports me in my effort and besides, Congress is about to pass funding. I believe with all my heart that if we can give these people back their dignity and let them be self-sufficient, then we will have played a great part in helping America. Don't you agree, Adriana?”

  I wasn't so sure, but was thrilled that she even bothered to ask. “I suppose only time will tell, but I do hope it all turns out wonderfully.”

  “That's what I like about you, Adriana. You're always open to new things.” She ignored Hick's snorts.

  “Vere, next stop. Next stop, Vere!” the conductor bellowed.

  Having been shown our meager lodgings, I could tell an already irritated Hick wasn't exactly pleased with being told she was to share a room with me, but by nightfall, none of that mattered. We were just a small part of the packed crowd watching Eleanor dance the Virginia Reel with one miner after another at their local town hall. Appalachian fiddlers, pounding heels on the wooden floor, and waves of claps and cheers energized the room to the point of vibration. They loved her.

  Two weeks later, armed with a twenty-five million dollar endowment for the Subsistence Homestead Program under the auspices of the National Industrial Recovery Act and FDR's “Go-Ahead,” Eleanor met with the Homesteaders Committee, to set up an intense first fifty family application process.

  Eleanor immediately made it abundantly clear that this was a Democratic Process. She was only there to help implement things, and whichever family the committee named, she would back up their decision. But after several weeks, she lamented bitterly to us. “I made a mistake. These people are refusing to let any of the Negro families in their new community. They claim that by admitting Negroes, they will lose the respect of the rest of the community. My God,” she moaned.

  “Well, Eleanor, you set it up that way.” Hick's voice iced through the room.

  “Even so, it's not fair and you know it, Hick,” Eleanor retorted. “I specifically urged these Negro families to apply, and over two hundred of them did. Oh, I feel so bad…”

  “Where will they go?” I asked.

  “They're talking about eventually setting them up at a different location, like they did with the Jewish families. Jew Hill they called it, with only one public outhouse for the entire community. The hygiene problems were horrendous, as you can well imagine.” She sank down into a chair.

  Within two months, the homesteaders were ecstatic as they watched luxurious indoor plumbing for bathrooms and kitchen sinks, along with homemade furniture, being installed. But back in Washington, Eleanor was bombarded by the press, her husband's cabinet and quietly, ever so gently, by FDR himself. The Arthurdale Community was costing far more money than had been previously agreed upon and with so much of America out of work, the general gossip was that Eleanor's pet project was becoming a liability for the presidency.

  Out of curiosity, I studied some of the larger programs FDR and Congress were instigating. A special branch of the WPA (Works Project Administration), where thousands of artists, musicians, and writers were given ninety four dollars and ninety cents a month just to create. That was amazing to me. Canvases were being painted by the likes of Jackson Pollock, Willem de Kooning, and Ben Shahn. Actors sprang up everywhere entertaining America, and an unknown writer named John Steinbeck was just launching his career.

  The CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) planted trees, dug drainage ditches, cleared beaches, campgrounds, and built firebreaks. It gave over two million jobs, at thirty dollars a month, to young indigent men from families on relief, turning them in
to proud firefighters and park rangers.

  But according to Hick, it was the PWA, (Public Works Administration), that was FDR's real pride and joy. Huge construction projects started immediately: The Pennsylvania Railroad electrical system, the New York Lincoln Tunnel, the Washington, D.C. Mall, the Federal Trade Commission, and last but certainly not least, Boulder Dam, which held back the Colorado River.

  It was heady times for me, assisting in such noble causes, but just watching Eleanor and Hick's close friendship, I began to see how spending time with my family had a new urgency attached to it. But it was not to be. Arriving back in D.C., Eleanor surreptitiously pulled me aside, explaining she had specific plans for just me, plans that she knew Hick couldn't handle, and there was simply no time to see my family.

  “What plans would that be?”

  “Race relations and prejudice,” she replied, stepping in closer.

  “What do you mean about Hick?”

  “Hick is a love, but frankly, she's not as attuned to the Negro issue in this country as you and I are.”

  I started to shake my head.

  “Adriana, you know it as well as I do. You've seen her in these situations.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She drew a deep breath. “I want you to go down to Alabama with an associate of my good friend, Mary McLeod Bethune.”

  “Who is this Mary Bethune?”

  “She's the founder of the National Association of Colored Women. Franklin's made her a member of his Black Cabinet, investigating problems for minority affairs.”

  “And what am I to do with her?”

  “Not with her, with her associate, Tom Johnson.”

  “Johnson. He wouldn't be a colored man, would he?”

  “Yes, Adriana, he's a Negro. Don't tell me you have a problem with that?”

  “Not in general, but we are going down to the Deep South. A white woman and a Negro. That I do worry about.”

  “I'm sending a bodyguard with you and Tom. Besides, you'll be staying in different places.”

  “Is the bodyguard for me or for him?”

  “Whoever needs it at the time.” Her tone read inscrutable.

  She proceeded to give me explicit instructions on what to look for, where to send my daily notes, what time to call and jotting it all down, I managed to keep a stoic face; this job hinged on Eleanor's confidence in me. Just outside the door, however, was altogether different. My hands wouldn't stop shaking and my stomach tightened like a twisted rag.

  Alabama. The land of the Yellowhammer bird. The Heart of Dixie state with the Camellia as its precious flower. The home of gentility, lazy afternoons, and lynching's.

  We arrived in Mobile, the oldest city in the state, founded by French colonists. Driving past Bienville Square, the magnificent balconies dripping with lace-like ornamental iron, the streets paved in stone, the gardens skirted by Spanish Moss and Hydrangeas the likes of which I had never seen, the word Paradise kept entering my mind.

  On the southeast corner of Government and Michigan, a two story stucco building with a wide angular porch, tile roof, fluted columns, and two tall windows spanning from floor to ceiling was to be my home for the next few days. Thoughtlessly, I clapped my hands.

  “Oh, my, this is simply gorgeous!” I cried. Then I saw Tom Johnson's clenched cheek.

  “For you it is,” he muttered as two white bellhops charged over, their faces braided with fury.

  “Hey, boy! Where do you think you're goin'?”

  He had been forewarned. “Nowhere. I'm on my way.”

  I nodded towards Jim Chaffey, our bodyguard. “Quick, go with him. He needs you more than I.”

  “I don't know. Mrs. Roosevelt made it clear you were to be protected.”

  “Never mind that. Go with Tom. Get him settled and then come back to me. I'll have your room ready.”

  Suddenly, Mobile's grandeur didn't seem quite so appealing.

  Jim returned by nightfall looking glum. “What is it?” I asked him in the hotel dining room.

  “You don't want to know…” he started.

  “Of course I do. That's why we're here, right?”

  “Well, Tom is staying in one of the worst areas I have ever seen. And I've seen some pretty rough places in Chicago and Washington, D.C.”

  I gulped. “Do you think he's safe?”

  “There he is, but I don't know about anywhere else that's White, that's for sure.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Can we order a drink first?” spilled out faster than a drug addict reaching for his fix. After two large swigs, he continued. “On our way to the hovel they call a boarding house, we passed by a group of men riding in a four door sedan, shotguns sticking out of every window, a Confederate flag tossed across the hood, and Johnny Reb hollers every two seconds. Frankly, I didn't like the odds. Well, they took one look at Tom in the front seat with me and started to follow us, yelling, ‘We're comin' after you, boy! Just you wait…’

  “But we were lucky. Just as they were gaining on us, I mean a foot from our rear bumper, a truck full of cotton pickers pulled out in front of them, nearly causing an accident. They were spittin' blood they were so mad, but they didn't bother following us any further. I could tell Tom was scared. If I was, he surely must have been.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Well, we're here to find out about the Negro condition, so tomorrow we'll go to Tom's neck of the woods as planned.”

  The next day, I realized just how accurate Jim was. All the tenements I had witnessed in New York, the bad places I had seen in Detroit couldn't begin to compare to this squalor. Shacks composed of rippled tins were salvaged together like a young child's project—crude, makeshift, uninhabitable, as people shuffled along on sidewalks, dirt roads, or mud-stained streets stooped over, their dulled eyes aimed downward or straight ahead.

  When Tom appeared, his eyes were hooded.

  “You come slumin' today?”

  “Tom. That's not fair. After all, that's why Eleanor sent us down here, isn't it? To stop this insanity.”

  He straightened up. “You're right. Sorry. Guess I got caught up in this madness.”

  I turned towards the street. “Let's go interview the first family on the list, shall we?”

  He nodded, leading us across the street and into a battered house. Entering the front door, his massive hand on my upper back, he gently guided me into the main room.

  A wooden table with wobbly chairs around it and a dwindling fire flickering under a steaming black-iron pot serviced a family of eight, busily eating their meal. It was several seconds before they even looked up at the strangers standing in their home and when they did, their faces registered alarm.

  Tom commenced. “We're not here to hurt you, I promise. The President of the United States and the First Lady has sent us down to find out from you folks exactly what's been going on ‘round here.”

  An old woman with a leather face cleared her throat. “Wha’ things you talkin' ‘bout?”

  Tom paused. “Well…”

  I butted in. “Have you had any problems with the Klan?”

  I thought Tom was going to slap me. “Now,” he interjected, “you don't have to answer that right away.”

  The old woman drew herself up. “Yes ma'am, we have.”

  The scraping of bowls stopped.

  “Was ‘bout a year ago. My brother, he…”

  “Yes?” I said, kneeling down in front of her.

  “Ma'am, he ain't done nothing wrong, I swear it. One night dey just come fer him. Maybe he looked at one of dem too long, or maybe he didn't say ‘Yessir’ fast enough. I jest don't know.” Everyone was nodding his or her head.

  “I want you to know the First Lady really cares about what goes on down here and she is trying her hardest to stop the lynching's. Do you believe that?”

  The old woman shrugged. “If you say so.”

  It wasn't until Jim and I returned to the hotel lobby that I realized how quiet Tom had been
the rest of the day, and I was just about to make a comment about that to my bodyguard when I was handed a message by the concierge. It was from a Miss Ethel Berry.

  “Miz Berry wants you to come to tea at her mansion.” The concierge was obviously impressed.

  “No phone number?”

  He laughed. “Why, ma'am, you just show up at the appointed time tomorra.”

  Miss Berry's mansion was breath-taking. Four columns on the wide porch beckoned visitors to stroll past the octopus-limbed Magnolia tree in the front yard before continuing up the weathered brick pathway and the magnificent antebellum entrance.

  Inside, a Negro servant motioned for me to follow him into the library for tea.

  “Tea, Miss Balakov?” a slightly older woman in a billowy, chiffon dress, sitting in an enormous armchair asked.

  We chatted about the southern weather, the plight of the country, the state of Mobile, which was why she had an antique shop on her ground floor, to augment the income left her by her husband. It was quite pleasant and I admit I was feeling pretty relaxed in such gracious surroundings. Suddenly, a grandfather clock chimed five p.m.

  She leaned forward. “Now, Miss Balakov, we are both women of the world, are we not?”

  I nodded.

  “Then I would like to give you a word of advice. I wouldn't stay here too long dear. There are some people who might not appreciate it.”

  I stared at her for a couple of seconds. “Are you threatening me?”

  She carefully placed her teacup back on her saucer with barely a clink and stood up. “Just heed my words, there's a dear. I believe you know the way out.” No longer smiling, her eyes had turned to stone.

  We started packing that night. Jim left word with someone he claimed he could trust, to let Tom know we were coming for him by ten thirty, so be ready to get out of town.

  By nine thirty it was quite dark, and speeding off, I looked behind us at the Spanish Moss swaying in the sultry summer breeze, the porch lights on, the fireflies sparking, the cicadas sawing their song, and the memory of Miss Berry's double-edged gentility. We both breathed huge sighs of relief and agreed how we could now fully commiserate with Tom along with the rest of the Negroes in our country, not only in the South.